International Relations
by MissTempleton
Summary: My first Miss Fisher fanfic, and it starts at the end of Season 3. Phryne's in London, and Jack's in Melbourne. Crime, however, is international - and Victoria's Commissioner of Police has a problem.
1. Chapter 1

**International Relations**

 **Chapter One**

Three murders.

Twenty-four assaults, fourteen on the day of a single footy match.

Two frauds – one on the racecourse, one a sordid family feud.

A kidnapping. Victim recovered unharmed, but unlikely to venture abroad without her chauffeur any time soon.

Innumerable petty thefts. Anyone would think Melbourne residents hung their jewellery on the washing line of an evening.

Four. Long. Months.

 _Come after me, Jack._

"Sir?"

Detective Inspector John Robinson started from his reverie and realised he'd been gazing at the same paragraph of his report for the last twenty minutes. He shook himself, and glanced up from his desk as Senior Constable Collins' head appeared around the office door.

"Yes, Collins?"

"The Commissioner's here and asking if you've got a minute". The words served as a handy bucket of ice cold water over Jack's wayward thoughts. Jumping to his feet, he dodged round the corner of his desk and flung the door wide. One tended to "have a minute" when the most senior officer in the state dropped by.

"Sir, come in, please." He hurriedly pulled out a chair as William Cooper strode into the room, removing his hat and handing it absently to his junior officer. Sitting, he looked up with his usual piercing intensity at the Inspector.

"How are you, Jack? Not seen you since Margaret Challoner's kidnapping. Tidy piece of work, well done."

This in itself was remarkable. While never urbane, Cooper could generally present a sociable enough face in Melbourne's polite society. However, with his men, his delivery was efficient to the point of being clinical. To resort to polite conversation, even with a man who knew himself to be both liked and respected by his boss was … suspicious.

"Thank you, sir," Jack replied diffidently, but forbore to respond to the implied invitation to discuss the case. The Commissioner wasn't in his office to pass the time of day, no matter how politely the conversation had been introduced.

"I'm glad to find you in. How's your caseload just now?" asked Cooper brusquely.

"Mostly tidying up just now, sir", responded Jack. "I've even been speaking to Collins about doing some information work with the some of our higher-risk residents – guidelines on storing valuables, avoiding break-ins, that sort of thing?" He glanced ruefully at the files still awaiting attention. "Some of this could so easily have been avoided with a couple of hints in the right direction." Cooper narrowed his eyes.

"Perhaps so, but hints need to be heard. There are a lot of deaf ears in this city. I may have a better idea."

With a quiet sigh for his hopes of reducing the City South workload just a little, Jack put on his dutifully attentive expression. "Sir?"

"It's a liaison job, and I'm looking for someone who's been working with the dross of the state of Victoria for longer than most." Cooper paused, acknowledging the hit. "You seem to fit the bill." The compliment was backhanded, but fair. Jack's training had been thorough, and often less than salubrious; it was odd how the docks seemed to attract not just healthy international trade but also some very unhealthy activities – from pilfered passenger luggage to full scale drug trafficking.

"The simple fact is we've come to a dead end, and neither Melbourne nor London has anything new to go on."

All of a sudden, Jack's interest was remarkably focussed. "London, sir?"

"London. We look to have a trade ring operating right under our noses but it's damnably hard to penetrate – and we've got to get in there." Cooper leaned his forearms on Jack's desk, his gaze intent but also … wait, was that _humour_ in the old man's eye?

Cooper had met Phryne (of course. Everyone who was anyone, and quite a few people who would prefer to be no-one, at least as far as the police were concerned, had met Phryne). Even appeared to like her, by all accounts. It seemed unlikely, though, that an international criminal endeavour would be set up to suit Jack's interests. Or hers.

No, wait. Surely … he shook himself. No, not even Phryne would go to those lengths. Or could. Not after so short an absence. No.

The image of her face, never far from his mind if truth were told (as of course, it would never be) appeared – he could see his dear torment smiling at him wickedly, her eyes glinting with a world of possibility. And her eyebrows raised.

 _Two steps behind, Jack?_

"It's like this, Jack." He once again forced himself to focus – and counted himself bloody lucky that there had been no serious crimes in the last few weeks. At this rate, a murderer could cruise in and lay waste to everyone in City South Headquarters while Jack was still musing over the colour of a particular lady's lipstick.

"As I see it, there's too much money."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

At what was possibly the most nonsensical statement a public servant had ever made in the state of Victoria, Jack's attention was finally and consistently directed at the Commissioner.

"I'm sorry, sir. For a moment there, I misheard you as suggesting there was too much money." He admired and respected Cooper, but it didn't mean he was ready to call out his own superior officer in the hope that he'd meet friendly understanding in return. To say he quaked in his boots would have been overstating the case. They were, after all, just brogues, not boots.

"That's exactly what I said. There's a group operating the docks here, and they are getting paid royally, and _we don't know what for_!" The crescendo in the Commissioner's tone showed his frustration as nothing else could. "It's not drugs. It's not bootleg liquor. It's nothing they're bringing in from the Orient and selling on at black market prices. Oh, I'm not saying all of these things aren't happening, but we've got a handle on those and we're tackling them. It's something else."

Cooper settled back in his chair while the DI had now started off on a new train of speculation. What could such an organisation be selling that had slipped beneath their radar? With the obvious candidates already ruled out, he turned back to the Commissioner.

"Can I ask, sir – how do we know the money's coming in?"

Cooper showed a glimmer of satisfaction at the question. Jack Robinson was an officer who'd deserved every promotion he'd ever received.

"At first it was just a few minor things. Observations here and there. When it's cheaper to buy a pint a mile from the docks than right outside the gates? That makes us think. When every man-jack on the waterfront who's got a ladyfriend prepared to accept the title has a home to go to with spanking new curtains and a shiny front door? We wonder. When Joe McCullum starts driving round Melbourne in a car that could give your Miss Fisher's Hispano-Suiza a run for its money, we want to shout the question from the bloody rooftops."

Cooper leaned back in his chair, and raised his hands as if in defeat.

"We don't know, Jack. We just-don't-know." He slapped his hands on the arms of the chair with each angry syllable.

"We've tracked the men. We've kept a close eye on the goods trucks and the shipping containers. Sometimes there's something worth looking at, but nothing in this league." He looked up at Jack. "We've agreed that we need to send someone to the other end of the line, to try to get a look at the receiving end. I know it's a big ask, Jack – you'd be kicking your heels at sea for the best part of six weeks before you can even start work – but I'm hoping the idea of being in London wouldn't be too deadly for you right now?"

That was a twinkle. He was getting a twinkle in the eye of the Commissioner of Police.

If for no other reason, he needed to leave town as soon as possible. After a short consultation with the timetables, the men agreed a plan and Cooper undertook to have his office book the passage. An alias seemed sensible, as he would need anonymity, at least at first.

Two telegrams were sent in the following hours, neither of which made sense to anyone but the sender and recipient.

P. Fisher, London

Strathaird STOP Benedick STOP Good Luck STOP Poorwill Melbourne

Butler, Melbourne

Wardrobe Benedick Strathaird STOP Missfish London


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

With resignation, Jack surveyed his quarters on board the ocean liner _Strathaird_ for the next few weeks. Although he was travelling incognito, the budget of the Victoria police department was the one that ruled, and that put him in the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company's cheapest Second Saloon.

There was room for him, his suitcases, and his bed. There was not room or opportunity for a window. The engine room could be regarded as a reassurance, given his proximity to it; there would not be the slightest chance of his being able to forget about it during the journey.

He was already contemplating the stage in the voyage at which he would be able to cope on deck with just a blanket, when a smartly uniformed officer came hurrying down the companionway, sweating profusely.

"Mr Benedick? Sir? Mr John Benedick?" After a nonplussed moment, Jack recalled his alias, and turned enquiringly to the man approaching. "That's me. Something wrong?"

"Mr Benedick, I'm so sorry" the man was actually trembling in his worry. "It's been a terrible oversight. I can't apologise enough. My only excuse … we weren't sure which of you or your colleagues would be travelling, and trying to check the passenger manifest for several names when it's changing all the time ….please, sir, follow me ….I'm so sorry …" he was already scurrying away, like a gold-striped, peaked-capped White Rabbit. Jack, mystified, jogged after him before he disappeared up the stairs at the corridor's end.

Three more flights of stairs followed. Another two corridors. A different colour of carpeting and a marked increase in the number of stewards signalled a very different part of the ship.

"Ah …" the White Rabbit was slightly out of breath, but clearly enormously relieved. "Here we are! I'll have your bags brought up straight away."

His relief, as he flung open the stateroom door, was palpable. As Jack walked past him into the expanse of light and luxury, he struggled to argue with the sentiment; although his sense of disquiet as to the reason for the hasty switch was already heightened. He swung around to question the purser further, but the man, clearly at his wits' end trying to order his vessel for departure, had already vanished.

Instead, Jack shrugged, took off his hat and raincoat and flung them on one of the tastefully arranged (and heavily built, to keep them stable in a storm) armchairs. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wandered over to the windows; at which point he realised they were in fact doors, leading out onto a balcony. When they started to move, he would be to the right of the ship; greeting the sun in the morning, and enjoying the cool of the shade in the afternoon.

Starboard, home. Well, it was scarcely home. But for a near-frozen soul only recently becoming used to the warmth of an extraordinary new flaming fire of female energy, it Would Do. It would Most Certainly Do.

Turning back into the stateroom, he surveyed his domain and noticed for the first time a slightly dog-eared envelope sitting on the dining table (a dining table? Was he expected to give dinner parties? A shudder was suppressed) propped up against a silver basket of fresh fruit.

He picked it up; it was indeed addressed to "J. Benedick, Esquire" in an elaborate hand he had come to know well. Turning it over, he saw an archaic wax seal.

Bearing a single, extravagantly cursive, letter B.

His brow furrowed. Picking up the fruit knife from its plate, he slit the envelope, and withdrew a single sheet.

 _I don't think the P &O will understand my allusion. Thou and I art too wise, though, my Jack. Your Beatrice._

Did he re-read the lines three times, or four? It wasn't as though he didn't get the full message the first time. In any event, the urge to sprint to the bridge and force the captain at gunpoint to cast off that instant, cancelling all intermediary stops on the way to England, was only fought by folding the note carefully, placing it in the left hand pocket of his blue wool jacket and walking slowly out onto the balcony of his stateroom to grasp the rail firmly with both hands and look unseeingly at the steady horizon.

Too wise to woo peaceably, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Jack was trying to summon the enthusiasm for unpacking his cases and digging out the case files when a knock came at the door. On opening it, he was faced with a smartly dressed steward.

"Good morning, sir. I won't keep you, but I just wanted to introduce myself. I am George, and I am your steward for our journey to England. It is my job to make sure that you have everything you need, and if something is missing, you must pick up the telephone here and tell the ship's switchboard, who will find me. That's assuming, of course, that you can't find me just by looking along the companionway." The man smiled deprecatingly. "In the first instance, it is my pleasure to enquire whether you might be able to join the Captain at his table for dinner this evening?"

Jack's heart sank. He already had a firm suspicion as to the culprit he could blame for his newly elevated status, and the prospect of making polite conversation with a group of strangers every night of the voyage filled him with dread. He clutched at the one available straw he could identify.

"George, thank you – and please thank the captain for me. I regret, though, that I have stupidly failed to bring evening dress, and would not dream of insulting the other guests by wearing only a lounge suit to dinner." His expression was, he thought, a perfect mix of apology and wistful regret.

Oddly, George seemed not one whit perturbed.

"It is I who am to apologise, Mr Benedick! I was so hasty, haha, in my eagerness to welcome you that I did not give you the opportunity to confirm that your wardrobe has arrived. You are perfectly prepared for every on board eventuality, sir."

Jack looked at him, thoroughly nonplussed.

"The captain suggests cocktails in his cabin at seven, sir. Will that be all for now?"

With a wordless nod, Jack closed the door behind his first ever manservant ... and strode to the dressing room. Hauling open the door, he stopped in horror. He appeared to have acquired not only evening dress but two more wool suits – one light, one heavy. A linen suit for the tropics. Blazer. A dozen shirts. Half a dozen pairs of shoes.

He closed his eyes in pain.

A swimming suit.

Suspicions mounting once more, he removed his suit jacket and slipped on the evening coat.

A Perfect Fit.

He cast his mind back to a day he had almost forgotten, shortly after Phryne left. He hadn't cared that much beyond appreciating her thoughtfulness. Mr Butler, Phryne's factotum, had got in touch to say that he had been charged with the task of supplying him with a new suit at Phryne's expense, to compensate for her having ruined so much of his wardrobe. The suit was accepted gratefully – not just because he needed a suit, but because it was another touch point with the woman he was already missing more than he would have thought possible – but of course, Mr Butler now had his measurements.

He had always understood – Phryne planned everything, or nothing. This was clearly one of the former situations. On the plus side, he could hold up his head among his fellow First Class passengers. On the minus ... he would so very much rather have dined in solitary state at his beautifully polished table. It might even, he thought, be Chippendale. He bent to check the underside. Almost certainly Chippendale. Good God.

He went to take off the coat, and noticed a rustling sound. Checking the outer pockets, he found another note, sealed with the now-familiar cursive "B".

 _I thought these might have waited till I got home. I wish I was there to stop you mangling your ties._

He smiled softly, and almost became resigned to his sentence for the coming weeks: acting the part of John Benedick, academic research analyst, for an unappreciative audience. He had not the slightest doubt that he'd be quizzed on his prowess when eventually he saw Phryne again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Marseilles, when they arrived, was mayhem. For a few minutes, Jack seriously contemplated remaining on board, but chastised himself. The ship would be docked all day, departing in the early evening, and luxurious though his accommodation was, he was becoming ever more impatient of counting away the hours and minutes until London. He had reviewed the case files in such detail that he could almost recite them by heart, but there was nothing more he could do until he had his feet on the ground in London. At the very least, he might find a bookshop – even if he could only find something in the French language, he would get the opportunity to improve his fluency. And perhaps find a thoughtful gift for Phryne. Something that could help her put France in a good light in her memory.

So, selecting his most lightweight suit and his second best brogues, he strolled via the Purser's office to obtain a few francs and descended into the maelstrom of humanity that was the Marseilles maritime crossroad.

Mid-afternoon saw him returning to the ship, satisfied with his day. A slim volume of Cocteau poetry sat in his pocket, and his hunger had been dealt with robustly, thanks to the shop-owner's recommendation of a restaurant at which to enjoy the city's famous Bouillabaise. Tonight, the ship would depart for its final destination; his heart lifted at the thought. Only six more days.

As he made his way up the gangplank, he was greeted with broad smiles by one of the officers.

"Mr Benedick! We're very glad you have returned early" he exclaimed. Jack looked at the man quizzically." We were most concerned that you would still be at the station, looking for your wife."

At the last word, Jack paled, swallowed hard and gazed fixedly at the smiling young man.  
He opened his mouth to say "My WIFE?" but nothing came out. Fortunately, the officer noticed nothing wrong, continuing enthusiastically, "Yes, the Train Bleu was very early into Marseilles, she said. I believe she went straight to your stateroom, sir, so you'll find her there."

Jack nodded absently in thanks and, on legs that no longer seemed precisely under his control, walked along the companionway. His lunch was suddenly less settled in his stomach, and he failed altogether to acknowledge the nod and smile of one of the other First Class passengers he passed on the stairs. As he reached his own deck, his feet unaccountably began to move more quickly, until he was running at full pelt towards the cabin. Stopping abruptly outside the door, he gazed, perplexed at the handle. His hand, fortunately, recognised the required engram, and grasped and turned it, opening the door and propelling him forward into the stateroom.

A slim figure was standing on the other side of the room, in front of the most enormous steamer trunk he had ever seen. As he entered, the figure turned, and a smile as bright as midday sun and just as warm bathed him in its incandescent glory. His heart, he thought, simply stopped. No matter. He had, he acknowledged, ceased to own it long since.

"Hello, Jack".


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

He closed the door and leaned on it for support as she half-ran across the space between them and threw herself into his waiting arms. He could do no more than hold her. More tightly. And bury his face in her shoulder, in her hair, and finally - finally - his lips found hers, and he was home.

When at last he raised his head to meet her eyes, he realised an unruly tear was making its way down her cheek. She was smiling still, but more gently now. Her lipstick was a little smudged, he noted with a degree of satisfaction, as he made an inventory of her features.

"Jack ..." she said teasingly, as though neither of them would notice her voice being a little lower. Blame the heat. Don't ever blame the urgency of the moment. "Two lips, indifferent red, two grey eyes, with lids to them... were you sent hither to praise me?"

"I'll appraise you as it suits me. Given that I seem to have acquired a wife without so much as a by-your-leave, I think I'm entitled to inspect her. Thoroughly." He raised an eyebrow and was pleased to see the twitch of her lips that his words prompted. His Phryne had class, and charm, and courage in abundance - but above all, she had a sense of humour.

"Ah, yes. That."

"That," he agreed.

"I needed to see you before you got to London, there's just too much to discuss. About the case" she added hastily, before his regard became too cynical. "No kidding this time, Jack, it's horrible and I have needed your hugs more times than I care to count." For a moment, she withdrew. Not physically; but he knew that there had been a memory she couldn't – or wouldn't – ignore. Almost unconsciously, he closed his arms a little more firmly round her. Supporting her was second nature; he couldn't pretend not to sense it when she faced a challenge. "The Train Bleu seemed the best way to do it, and I couldn't risk using my own name in case anyone followed me on to the boat." Of course. Heaven forbid she could use anything other than the most glamorous way to achieve her ends.

Then she paused, and her eyes lit up with mischief. He knew that look, and waited apprehensively.

"On the other hand, I understand it will take us about six days to get to London. By my calculations it will take me about two or three hours to tell you everything I know about the case. Allowing for eating ... and sleeping ... Jack, did I mention how much I have missed you? Though do bear in mind that I've kept my stage name on our marriage."

He closed his eyes for an instant, recalling a certain fan dancer. "Which is ...?"

"Beatrice, of course. Beatrice di Messina." She rolled the name off her tongue in the Italian style, as though he might not be sufficiently quick on the uptake.

It could have been worse, he supposed.

"It's all right," she smiled at him fondly. "The crew are already aware that you are tired of being introduced as Mr Messina."

Or perhaps not.

Jack walked to the telephone. With his back to her, he lifted the receiver and tapped for the operator.

"Hello. John Benedick here. Yes, thank you, quite a relief for all concerned. I'm ringing to ask, though - please could you pass a message to the crew that my wife is exhausted? I would be grateful if the steward could wait until he hears from me before disturbing her. Her schedule was extraordinarily hard to clear, and I fear she has rather overdone things. What's that? No, no, you're very kind, but I think the ship's doctor will concur with my view that nothing more than bed rest for a few days is really needed. Yes. Yes, I will do so. Thank you."

Counting in his head, he slowly replaced the handset. Presuming to know Phryne Fisher's wishes? Dangerous. Announcing your presumption to the world? Little short of suicidal.

Having reached ten, and not heard any expostulation, he took his courage in his hands and turned to face Phryne, now perched on the side of the bed. She appeared to be leaning down, and as he watched, sat up and, narrowing her eyes slightly, pitched first one and then the other frivolous sandal on to the window seat. One, not landing quite squarely, tipped slowly over. Then it fell to the floor. Where it rocked, slightly, and gave up to gravity, landing gracefully on its side, the golden laces curling happily into the sole.

Its progress was followed studiously by them both; whereupon Phryne turned to look at him, lips slightly open, breath coming more rapidly than would have been expected from such light exercise.

"Now, Jack? Can we? Now?"

His reply could only be delivered as a hoarse whisper.

"Yes" Inaudible. He swallowed, tried again. "Yes. Please."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

She stood, and walked barefoot around the bed to stand before him. Raising her eyes only just far enough, she loosened the knot of his tie and drew it through his collar, pausing only to pull him forwards for a swift, almost clinical kiss – a mere brush of the lips – before removing the tie altogether. It was neatly and gently folded before being flung over her shoulder, to land in decorative disarray over the rubber plant. It would, he reflected, be very creased.

She then knelt to undo his shoelaces, easing off each second-best brogue carefully before firing them in turn towards her own shoes. They found one brogue later. The other was thought to have landed in the sea through the open window. The socks, a legacy of a day's walk around Marseilles, were gingerly peeled away with fingertips and dropped with delicately wrinkled nose at arm's length. She then paused, on her knees before him, apparently lost in thought.

While he still could, he hastily caught her upper arms and drew her to her feet. He was in enough trouble already, and her pensive perusal was liable to tip his self control over the edge. As she came to her feet, her eyes met his and his gaze fell to her lower lip. It occurred to him to wonder whether its flavour had changed. It would be as well to be sure. He leaned in.

Then she was in his arms, long legs wrapped around his waist. Clothes in the way, then miraculously not (or rather, no longer available for service as clothing, as it later transpired). The months of restraint and flirtation took remarkably little time to resolve for either of them. He caught her cry in his kiss. Forced onto his face by her imperious shove, he closed his eyes and allowed her to explore his back thoroughly; then turned over, to permit a rather less rigorous (as it turned out) exploration. In his turn, he professed himself relieved to discover that her prolonged ordeal at the controls of the Tiger Moth had not in any way caused her delightfully toned stomach muscles to soften; though again, his professional training in the disciplines of detection would not allow anything less than minute examination with eyes, lips and (in a venture which cost him a playfully boxed ear) teeth. He complained: how else would he have located the deliciously sensitive spot below her ribcage that could make her shudder involuntarily?

Phryne was voracious and unrelenting. She was also as inquisitive as a child on Christmas morning. It was as though her serried ranks of lovers had never been: there was only Jack, with his dark gaze and his gentle words. She was utterly undone, and vulnerable in a way that was quite unfamiliar; unfamiliar because she welcomed it to a degree she hadn't thought possible. Jack, her Jack, would always have her back; but she had many defenders. When she dozed for a while, she awoke to find his eyes steadily on her face. Was it worship? No, that would have earned him no more than a rank and file position in her army of inamorata. Adoration there was, certainly; but also challenge. And above all, friendship. This was the ultimate reward – a best friend for whom there were no barriers at all. Counting her blessings, she made a mental note to continue to ensure that they were outnumbered by his kisses.

Fortunately, Phryne's Jack was as committed to the endeavour as Jack's Phryne.

They ran out of steam temporarily just as the ship built its own; Marseilles was left astern and their neighbours dressed for dinner. Phryne and Jack awoke to silence, interspersed with distant laughter and chatter. Drawn out of doors to look at the moon, they discovered that the balcony was not overlooked, and decided to make good use of the opportunity to try something new; the noisy return of their neighbours chasing them back to bed later, giggling like teenagers.

Who knew, thought Phryne, that her solemn Jack could _giggle_? She wrapped the sound in her heart, to be examined later when they happened not to be together, naked and joyously wicked. She stored it next to her vulnerability; and the pieces made a jigsaw match.

At around two a.m., a sleepy steward brought them scrambled eggs after a whispered call. Jack met him at the door, thanking him and assuring him that his wife was sleeping, but would wake soon and be very grateful. The incongruity of the bottle of chilled Dom Perignon '21 within this scenario was not, apparently, worthy of remark; but the effect of the bubbles, the food and her earlier restorative nap meant that the dining table, once their food was consumed, was pressed into unorthodox service.

Phryne reflected that Mr Chippendale would undoubtedly have been pleased at the resilience of his tongue and groove.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Towards the end of their second day together their hunger for each other, while not waning, became more manageable. As long as no more than a few minutes elapsed between the touch of hands, or lips, or glance, they found themselves almost able to readdress the outside world. They bathed and, to a degree, dressed. While they waited for dinner to be served in their room, they took the opportunity of all the other guests once again being at dinner to relax on the balcony in the still evening air, and discuss the case. There were two perfectly serviceable steamer chairs available, but only one was required; Jack reclined upon it, and Phryne reclined on Jack. Her proximity was useful for his new project, which was to memorise precisely the course of her hairline at the back of her neck. She proved amenable to the study. Mostly.

"Hold me, Jack," she said, as a preamble. Again, the withdrawal behind a wall of shock or hurt – he didn't know which, but didn't question for a moment her honest need for reassurance. His hands left off their play at her collar and warmly encircled her waist, linking together around her and, with a gentle squeeze of his arms to draw her in, relaxed there.

With a shuddering breath, she began her recitation.

"I've only got parts of the story – there are some big gaps that still need to be filled."

"It started late one night. I was driving home through Soho – the fog was thick, so I was taking it pretty slowly – for me," at which Jack's lips twitched a little. For breakneck, substitute hell-for-leather, he thought.

"I went to cut down Frith Street but as I came round the corner, a girl was stepping out into the road. She jumped back, but fell and hurt her ankle. I stopped, to see if I could help."

Phryne paused. "She was a whore, of course." No judgement in her words – just statement of fact – that time of night, that part of town, a woman alone and on foot. The relevance of her profession wasn't in any of those factors.

"She was painfully thin, and visibly bruised. And terrified, Jack. Absolutely terrified. That wasn't remarkable except that it became clear very quickly, she wasn't afraid of being on the streets of Soho at that hour of the night. As soon as she opened her mouth to speak, I found out she was Australian. Not just Australian, she was from Melbourne. Her name was Kitty."

He noted the past tense, but forbore to interrupt.

"I tried to find out what it was she was afraid of. I even tried to get her to come and get in the car so that I could take her home with me."

How very Phryne. No question of taking the girl to the authorities; handing off the responsibility to someone else as soon as possible. His Phryne took on such burdens without so much as a thought, and indeed, to describe this woman as a burden would, he was sure, have been met with sheer astonishment from his lover.

 _His lover_. His heart thrilled momentarily and he kissed her hair absently, then returned to the matter at hand.

"She wouldn't come. She said they would kill her and another girl as an example, but she wouldn't say who was doing the killing. All she could say was that she was working off a debt. She cried, and said she didn't think she'd ever pay it off."

Phryne knew only too well what it was to be trapped in poverty – this girl's story was painfully close to home.

"Then, I heard a footstep, and someone backhanded me on to the pavement, from behind. The fog must have deadened the sound – I don't know how I could have missed his approach otherwise. He didn't knock me out, and it could only have been seconds before I came to – but by that time Kitty was gone."

His arms tightened around her. Would he ever be able to accept Phryne's capacity to tempt risk?

"I don't know how she got there, Jack, but she said "we" – it's not just Kitty, there are more girls like her. Somehow, I think there are a group of Melbourne girls in London, working the streets and in debt to someone – I don't know who.

Then there was the body."

Another pause. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped a couple of tones. This story was hurting.

"I started keeping an eye on the papers. When a death of a young woman was reported, I went to the morgue. The first time I was none the wiser, but the second ..."

"Kitty?" he guessed.

"No." She was muttering into his shoulder now. "Worse."

How could it possibly be worse?

"Not Kitty. But a girl of about the same age, in the same kind of grey smock with green trim. And I didn't have Mac to hand for the expert view, but I would guess about four or five months pregnant.

Drowned."

He hugged her more tightly and kissed her brow. Not one death but two. Had the girl taken her own life? Or had some scum of a pimp seen no further than a whore who couldn't do the job, and an extra mouth to feed?

"That was when I wrote to Bill Cooper. He didn't open up to me much; we may have got wonderfully drunk together at Aunt Prue's dinner table, but he's a professional. I didn't open up much to him either, to be fair. All I said was that I needed help solving a Melbourne crime in London, and could he spare someone."

She tipped her head to glance at him sidelong. "I may have suggested a particular individual. I may have suggested a few aliases for that person if they happened to be travelling under cover, to help me make contact. It's not my fault if you're the most useful member of the police force of the State of Victoria."

Her voice emerged again from the depths of his embrace. "I don't know anything about the gang behind it. What they're called. How they are getting the women on to the ships. And I definitely don't know how the money gets back to Australia. But it must. Because if it wasn't worth their while, they wouldn't be putting new sex slaves on boats. And that poor girl would still be alive."

His heart was heavy at the enormity of the task they faced, but he was in no doubt that between them, they would find a way to resolve it. They sat there for a little longer, and he felt her shoulders relax as she gradually became calm again. George tapped on the door, and Jack let him in to lay out the meal. Only once the steward had left, did he rouse Phryne to come and eat.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The following morning, they decided it was time to venture forth from the cabin. A stroll on the deck in the sunshine and a good breakfast set the horrors of last night's discussion into a more bearable perspective. On returning to the stateroom, they found that George had taken advantage of their absence to do a little tidying, and a young woman was sweeping the rugs. They both apologised on being caught at work, but Phryne smilingly bade them finish up – she and her husband could easily keep out of the way.

 _My husband? The word caused a knot in her stomach._ She idly wound a hair ribbon round her hand as she watched the woman at work. Her swift movements bespoke efficiency and experience at this kind of task in such a confined space. "You've done this before" she remarked with a grin.

"Oh yes, madam. Five years now I've been working for the line." The woman glanced up and smiled in reply, but did not pause her task. "Always wanted to travel, and I started work the minute I turned sixteen."

Phryne's interest quickened at this, and she asked idly, "I'd never really thought of all the people needed to get us from Melbourne to London, but I suppose there must be hundreds of people like you, with the sea in their blood?"

"Reckon so, madam – well, on the P&O anyway. Some of the other lines aren't so good. Sometimes seems to me the Green Funnel Line has a different crew for every sailing. The chambermaids anyway. How they get anything done I don't know, I'm sure."

And there it was. In a chance conversation with a cockney chambermaid, an answer to one of their biggest questions. Even if there were other shipping lines involved, she and Jack could almost certainly focus on Green Funnel.

"How on earth do they find these girls, do you think?" she wondered out loud.

"There's an agency, miss. Not everybody just goes straight to the shipping line for work; if you can get in with an agency, you get to be a bit more flexible about the time you put in. Money's not quite as good, but there you are – it suits some. Right, that's me done, I'll get out of your way. Nice chatting to you, madam, enjoy the rest of the voyage!" She followed George out of the door, and closed it gently behind her.

Phryne went out on to the balcony where Jack occupied one of the steamer chairs. Nudging him over, she sat at his hip.

"Did you hear?" He nodded. "That's it, isn't it? It must be an agency of some sort bringing them across." She spoke in a low voice, knowing well how readily conversation could be heard by anyone on one of the adjacent balconies, but all the same, he raised a single finger to her lips. She pursed them in frustration, but acknowledged his point; and retaliated by opening her mouth to suck his finger in. Straightaway, his eyes darkened; he concentrated intently on her gentle tasting and caressing with her tongue. Then, in one swift movement, he was on his feet with her caught in his arms. Stepping over the chair, he carried her into the cabin, pushing the French window closed with his foot and leaning against it, before bringing her face to his for a kiss that sizzled straight to her core.

"For that particularly excellent piece of detective work, Miss Fisher, I think you deserve a reward," he said solemnly. "Would you prefer a thank-you letter from the Prime Minister, one of Mr Butler's cakes, or … something else?"

She pretended to think for a moment. "Mr Butler's cakes go straight to my hips, and you know I'm not much of a one for letters … It will have to be option three, I think, Detective Inspector."

"In that case, I will have to think of a reward myself. I hope you find it …. acceptable …" he murmured as his lips worked their way from her ear down ….


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Their final days on board passed in a flash, it seemed. They could do no more on the case until the ship docked, so they cheerfully resigned themselves to a short holiday. Phryne was presented with Jack's book of Cocteau, and read it to him as they sat, side by side in the sunshine, sipping icy Negronis. In a mood more calm than she had ever known on the subject, she told him a little more of her time in Paris.

They swam in the pool – Jack discovered that the attraction of seeing Phryne in a swimsuit was worth the penance of having to don his own. Phryne observed Jack's front crawl and shivered delightedly.

They dealt dextrously together with the curiosity of their fellow passengers at dinner; Phryne unveiled a persona of polite non-disclosure in her professional role, while Jack took up the running with some anecdotes on his research studies into human nature. As the humans in question were now firmly behind bars for the foreseeable future (or indeed, already with their Maker), his views were authoritative. If not, precisely, academic.

They both looked forward to the end of the evening, which would find them lying banked up on pillows in the privacy of their stateroom. Phryne's head fitted perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder, their limbs entwined comfortably, and they would talk of anything and nothing. Shoes, Ships, Sealing Wax bearing an elaborately cursive letter B.

London came all too quickly.

"So, Jack, when we dock, we'll need to split up. The gang can't have the opportunity to see us together and make the connection." Phryne re-applied her lipstick in the mirror as she spoke.

Jack stood by her shoulder, using the same mirror to tie his tie. The domestic overtones of the moment appeared not to occur to either of them.

"Okay," he replied. "Once I've found myself some lodgings in Limehouse, how will I find you? And I have to ask – can you take the rest of my clothes with you when you go? My cover isn't going to be able to wear a steamer trunk."

"Oh, Jack!" she smiled into his eyes in the glass. "I thought you wanted to stay undercover for a while?" He tipped his head in query.

"If you go and stay in some respectable lady's boarding house in Limehouse, your whereabouts will be known to every crook and ne'er do well in a five mile radius before the day is out. You had as well take out a full page advertisement in the _Times_. Women gossip, Jack – even respectable ones. You're talking about a close-knit community where everyone knows everyone else's business." He was crestfallen, and starting to look worried. How many more bad moves might he make simply through not knowing his territory?

"I have a better idea," said Phryne happily. "I'm going to the Savoy. Meet me there. There's an entrance at the back, you can get to it from the Thames side of the building. I'll book dinner in the Grill for eight thirty – in my own name this time, I can leave Beatrice behind. A nice, quiet corner table where we won't be disturbed – or overlooked. We'll have the chance to plan properly. I wish I could take you in the car with me, but we have to leave the boat separately. You go first, via the Second Class route, and I'll see you later. Oh, and Jack?"

He turned back enquiringly.

"You'll need to take your evening dress yourself and change somewhere. The hotel might have a space?" She smiled brightly as he narrowed his eyes at her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Paying off his cab on the Embankment, Jack spun around to get his bearings. The slow-moving Thames, close to high water, was busy with trade and pleasure craft, and behind him, the commerce of England's capital carried on in riotous wave. Crossing the road, he picked his way up the hill to the rear door of one of London's most famous and grand hotels: the Savoy. As he entered, a young lady looked up in welcome from her position at a beautiful reception desk.

"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you at all?" He put his cases down and removed his hat.

"Thank you. I'm actually meeting a lady here for dinner in a little while but – as you see," he gestured to his suit, "I need to change. I don't suppose there's somewhere I can … smarten up?"

"Of course!" The girl smiled politely, a finely judged reaction to the nature of his arrival. "How thoughtful of you to come this way – you can make a proper entrance. Do you happen to know where the reservation has been made?"

"The Grill, I believe. A Miss Fisher?"

He might as well have said a magic word. Her face lit up. "Then you must be Mr Benedick. I was told to expect you. I can do better than a changing room – we've a single on the first floor that we've set aside for you. You'll be much more comfortable there – and you can leave your bags there too."

She made some notes in the book before her, and rang a bell to summon the porter.

"Please take Mr Benedick to room 114, Henry. Thank you."

114 was far from palatial in its dimensions, but Jack was more than satisfied. He hung out his tail coat while bathing and shaving, to remove the creases it had suffered during the transit in his battered suitcase; and by the time he'd achieved a satisfactory result with his tie, it was almost eight. Descending to the ground floor, he noted – not for the first time – how easy it was to be incognito while dressed to the nines. As Jack Robinson, Aussie detective, he'd have stuck out a mile in his raincoat and trilby; as John Benedick, gentleman, he barely warranted a second glance.

Assuring himself that he'd earned it, he ordered a cocktail and sat on one of the banquettes in the foyer to await Phryne.

She didn't disappoint. And she certainly warranted a second glance from every warm blooded male in the vicinity.

Pausing as she arrived in the front hall, she glanced around looking for him; which gave Jack the perfect opportunity to appreciate what there was of her evening gown. Dazzling in silver and white, it left little to the imagination.

She saw him, and her smile of recognition dissolved his solar plexus. The silver fox slung over one shoulder was nonchalantly allowed to slip a few important inches. Sashaying across the floor, she planted a kiss full on his mouth. Which he then remembered to close.

"Hungry, Jack? I'm ravenous" she whispered. Taking his arm, she led him towards the Grill, greeting the maitre d' as an old friend and accepting gracefully a secluded booth, a glass of champagne and a menu.

"Let's get the business of ordering out the way, Jack – Michel, the oysters please, and the steak tartare."

Steak sounded sensible. "The same, please" he concurred, handing his menu back, "and we can just stick with the champagne, I think?" Phryne acquiesced with a smile of dismissal for the waiter.

"So, what's the plan for the morning, Jack?"

"Well, we agreed we have three things to do. One, to stop the supply of women; two, deal with the ones who are already here; and three, get the ringleaders from both sides of the operation behind bars. We're going to need the Metropolitan Police's help for the last part, and I've got a letter of introduction, but I'd rather wait until I've something substantive on who's involved before going to them," he said pensively.

"You make it sound easy! But how on earth can we stop the supply, from here?" she enquired.

"That's the bit I think you're going to be best at," he replied with a slight smile. He knew that, much as he would like her kept well away from the action, to suggest it would only meet firm rejection and an even more dangerous prospect of her involving herself without his knowledge. "I'm going to have to spend some time down at the docks for a few days – I'm looking for some familiar faces from the old days, but until I see them, we can't make a move. Once we have a name, though, we can start tracking down the flow of funds back to Australia – and put a stop to it. When the funds stop coming, my guess is the activity will wind down pretty fast. I reckon most likely it's going to need some persuasive work with a bank clerk or two …."

Her eyes lit with the elegance of the solution. "We'll still have to deal with the gang this end, but Bill Cooper will be more than capable of dealing with the Melbourne part." She reached under the table and squeezed his knee gently.

He promptly removed her hand, muttering as he did, "Phryne, we have an entire dinner to get through. I've coped with the sight of you in what passes for a dress that you're wearing, I'm coping now with being able to smell your scent, but if you lay one finger on me, I warn you, you won't even be allowed a single oyster, because we will have to go and find a private room, and your exit won't be anything like as elegant as your entrance was."

She obediently folded her hands in her lap, but her lips were twitching and her shoulders shaking slightly. Raising her eyes to his, they were full of mischief – and warmth.

"Speaking of private rooms, Jack," she hastily changed the subject, "I have a suggestion. You should simply stay here. No, hear me out" she added, when he opened his mouth to dismiss the idea.

"You want to be able to come and go without drawing attention to yourself. The staff here are discretion itself. If you stay somewhere smaller, you lose anonymity. And I'll keep my room on too, so it'll be easy for us to keep in touch. I'll pay – it won't cost poor Bill a penny."

He paused, and concluded that her plan had a lot going for it, though he failed to recognise his superior officer in the sobriquet "Poor Bill". He wouldn't mention the fact that he also liked the idea of being able to keep tabs on her – the idea would only rile her, but from his perspective, it would be a relief. He tipped his head to one side and regarded her consideringly.

"Okay. You've sold me." Her delight was palpable, and coincided with the arrival of their oysters; the remainder of the dinner passed in discussion of tactics for their next stage. His grievance with the tartare was quickly assuaged when, under her reassuring tutelage, he took his first taste.

They lingered over coffee, Jack enjoying simply watching the play of candlelight on her face. She talked animatedly – they had progressed on to London theatre now, and she was determined to take in a show once they were able to be seen abroad together.

Eventually, they reached a tacit agreement to retire for the night. He pulled out the table, and they walked slowly back to the lobby.

"Tell me your room number, Jack? I'll go and speak to the desk about keeping the rooms on, and give you a call when I'm back in mine." He did so, and turned for the stairs, glancing back to see her in intense discussion with the concierge.

Now that he was staying, he unpacked the suitcases, hung his clothes in the wardrobe and lay on the bed in his shirt sleeves, waiting for the phone to ring. He was startled, therefore, when there was a tap – not at the door of his room, but at a door near the window he hadn't previously remarked. Trying the handle, he found the door opened inwards – and Phryne on the other side of it.

She grinned at him mischievously, and stepped back, gesturing dramatically with her arm to the room behind her.

"Welcome to my boudoir! Such luck that we just happened to have been given adjoining rooms …"

"Luck? Somehow I doubt it" he responded sardonically. However, he couldn't deny that the arrangement suited him perfectly, for now. Less a room, more a suite, there was far more space than his own; and the bedroom they were in now was comfortably large enough for a simply vast bed. Closing his arms around her, he looked her squarely in the eyes, and drew the zip on her dress to her waist. She returned his gaze while nimbly dealing with his shirt studs. The two garments hit the floor simultaneously, and no further conversation proved necessary.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Jack was woken the next morning by a phone call.

"Sid? Sid, it's Phryne Fisher. Now, Sid, come on. No. You didn't mean it then and you don't mean it now. The driveshaft was a goner before I got behind the wheel and you know it. Anyway, I haven't got time for gossip – Sid, can you lend me a motorbike? I've no idea what you mean. Of course it'll come back in one piece."

The next two days were a reminder of the unrelenting dullness of so much police work. Because he was afraid of being recognised himself, Jack could only keep a low profile and watch the comings and goings of the dock workers. The weather was inclement; now and again squalls of rain fell, and a wind blew the newspaper he pretended to read. He rotated between three cafes at differing distances from the dock gates, so as not to draw more attention to his presence than was necessary, and could only ration himself to twenty minutes in each. Although he arrived at first light on the motorbike Phryne had procured for him, just as the first shifts were clocking on, and remained until dark, he saw no-one he recognised.

The reward, though, was in his nights with Phryne. Tasked with finding a solution for the plight of the girls once they were released, she was visiting women's charities and exploring her contacts in the philanthropic world. When he returned to the hotel in the evening – now via a side door chiefly used by the staff of the hotel, to maintain his low profile as far as possible – she was always there, waiting in her room, to enfold him in her arms, pour him a whisky and simply talk. The nights in her bed were heaven, and he tried not to think ahead to what might happen when the time came for him to return to Australia. They understood each other so well in some ways, but in others, not at all; how could he ask such a free spirit to bind herself to him? He couldn't. If she did, she would no longer be the Phryne he knew; if she did not, he would have to live without her; which was unthinkable.

On the third day at the docks he had a breakthrough. A ship docked from the Green Funnel line, and he watched all day as the passengers and their baggage disembarked; cargo was taken from the hold; and at long last, the crew descended the gangplank. A long line of women – the chambermaids – were among them, and a dozen, all similarly dressed, were escorted to a truck waiting on the dockside. Clearly, they suspected nothing; they went calmly to their transport, and helped each other to board. Counting his blessings again – or the particular blessing that was Phryne Fisher and her capacity for forethought that had provided him with the motorbike, he ran to it, started up and followed the truck at a discreet distance.

It headed straight into the west end of London, and the backstreets of Soho. Tailing it became harder, and he was forced to close the gap a little, rather than risk losing it. Eventually, he rounded a corner and stopped abruptly – a pair of tall gates was closing behind it. He thought for a moment, then turned and circled the block in the other direction. Sure enough, as he drove slowly along the adjacent street, the front door of a warehouse building opened, and a giant of a man came out. One glance at him was enough to have Jack returning to the Savoy by the most direct route possible rather than risk alerting his quarry's attention.

He was going to need Phryne's help now, and paced her room impatiently as he waited for her to return.

At last, just before midday, the door opened and she strode in. Seeing him there at such an unexpected time of day, her face lit up. "Jack! Have you found him? Have you got a name?"

"I have," he said grimly. "It's the McCullums, just as the Commissioner suspected. I followed a truckload of Green Funnel chambermaids to a warehouse in Soho – and spotted Lachlan McCullum leaving. Phryne, can you come quickly? If he's just taken delivery of a new shipment of women, he may well be about to arrange payment. We need to tail him in case he goes to his bank, and he knows my face too well. I'm sorry, but I need to ask you to be the one to go in after him."

She didn't hesitate. Snatching up her bag, she moved to the door and held it wide for him.

"Let's go, then, shall we? You know how I love to ride a motorbike …"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

A stakeout on his own, and one in Phryne's company were two very different propositions. They found a doorway of a disused shop across the road and a little further down from the warehouse. Phryne stood with her back to the door; Jack faced her, and was able to watch the door of the warehouse reflected in the glass of the entranceway. And obviously, because they needed cover, they kissed. Often. Lightly. Jack always kept one eye on the reflected doorway, but Phryne was free to entertain herself.

"If I'd known a stakeout was this much fun, I'd have signed on as a Special years ago" she chuckled in a whisper. Her fingers were currently working their way between Jack's shirt buttons – he periodically slapped them away, but she was, as ever, persistent. When Jack straightened up and hissed through his teeth, though, she stopped immediately. His eyes were following a very tall man who had come out of the warehouse and was walking towards them. In earnest, this time, she put her arms round his neck and pulled his face towards her, the brim of his hat completely shielding his face from the street. How long ago it seemed since their first kiss had offered similar protection. The heavy footsteps passed them without pause, and Jack risked a peek after McCullum a few seconds later.

The man folded himself into a nippy roadster parked at the side of the road, gunned the engine and roared off, turning right at the junction up ahead. Grabbing Phryne's hand, Jack sprinted for the motorbike and the pair of them were in pursuit within seconds, Phryne sticking like a limpet to Jack's lean frame as he swung through the series of turns.

"He's heading for the City", she yelled in his ear. "I think we're in luck." He nodded, and eased back to keep the car in more distant sight. Now that he knew what to look for, they stood a good chance of being able to find the car even if they lost it in the pursuit.

He needn't have worried. The car pulled up outside one of the many imposing porticos in the City of London, and McCullum marched confidently in. Jack pulled up a few yards away, and helped Phryne hop off the bike.

"You're on. When you're finished, I'll be waiting over by that cab rank" he muttered. Taking her chin in his gloved fingers, he gave her a hard kiss. "I suppose it's useless to tell you not to take any unnecessary risks?"

"Oh, Jack, you should know I only ever take risks that are absolutely essential" she smiled cheerfully. Ignoring his growl, she strode up the steps of the bank. Shaking his head, he wheeled the bike across to the taxi rank and settled in to wait.

Hovering by the door, affecting interest in a list of market prices, she soon saw McCullum. Away from the main line of tellers was a solitary desk, in front of which he sat facing a bespectacled clerk. The man was busy with a loose-leaved booklet, into which he had inserted a sheet of carbon paper. In low tones, he consulted with his customer and completed details on the form in front of him. Eventually, the transaction was completed. The clerk tore off the top copy of the document, and handed it to McCullum; the two men stood, shook hands and McCullum walked away, passing Phryne with barely a glance in her direction.

She promptly took the seat he had vacated in front of the bespectacled clerk. He raised his head enquiringly, and was treated to Phryne's best, one-hundred-watt smile.

He blinked.

"Can I … er … can I help you … er …. Miss?"

"Oh, I DO hope so!" she gushed, reaching a gloved hand across the table as though to take his hand. He glanced down at it, and nervously fiddled with his fountain pen. "I'm absolutely at my _wits' end_ "

"You see, I need to send funds to my poor, elderly aunt, and I've not the slightest idea how to go about it. She's in _Australia_!" Phryne wailed. The young man quailed even more, but battled bravely on.

"That … that's quite possible, ma'am – are you aware of the telegraphic transfer system?"

"NO!" she exclaimed, "But it sounds absolutely _darling_! Can I really? I" – but then she broke off, and began coughing violently. Nonplussed for a moment, the man jumped to his feet.

"Some …er … water, miss?" he asked nervously. Still coughing, eyes watering, Phryne nodded vigorously. The young man hurried away to a back room.

As quick as a flash, and still coughing, Phryne glanced left and right before she snatched the booklet across the desk, tore off the last page and stuffed it into her pocket. By the time the young man returned, she was digging in her bag for a delicate lace handkerchief, and blowing her nose vigorously.

Thanking him effusively for his help, she sipped the water and listened with apparent interest as he described how to send money to the other side of the world.

"Can I do this now? That would be quite, quite _marvellous_!" she exclaimed. "You are _most awfully_ clever." Her victim blushed to the roots of his hair.

"Well, as long as you have funds in your account here, miss …?" he ventured.

"Oh no! No, my account is at the other place – you know, round the corner. Hoare's." She smiled happily. "But now you've explained it all so beautifully, I shall go and do it straight away. And do you know, I think I might have to speak to them about moving my account here – it seems silly, doesn't it, that they couldn't have told me themselves about this clever telegraph thing?"

Chattering away, she gathered handkerchief and gloves, and favoured the clerk with one last, brilliant smile. "Thank you so _very_ much. You're an absolute _hero_ " she simpered, and scuttled out of the building.

Trusting that the man would be too befuddled to get straight on with his work, she glanced both ways and sprinted across the road to where Jack was already kickstarting the bike.

"I've got it. Let's get out of here before they realise!" She hopped nimbly on to the back and they raced off back to the west, and the haven of the Savoy.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Jack could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw what Phryne drew from her bag, when they returned to the safety of her room. Together they deciphered the details, which were exactly as they'd suspected; a transfer for five hundred pounds to an account in the Bank of New South Wales in Melbourne. Under the name McCullum Marine Maids (the mind could only boggle).

"You do realise, Phryne, that because we have this sheet of paper, the funds won't be sent?" Jack commented. "Not only do we have the proof of the McCullums' collusion, you've single handedly turned off the funding tap – at least this time." He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her, soundly and jubilantly. " _And_ it gives me enough to go to the Met for help in closing down this end of the operation. Although admittedly I'm going to have to tap dance around the felony you committed to get the evidence. If anyone asks you, we went straight from the bank to Scotland Yard."

She smiled fondly. "That's my Jack. Such a stickler for procedure and doing things the right way." She tilted her head quizzically at him, her bob swinging jauntily, "I didn't know you could tap dance, mind you? You'll have to show me some time. If it's anything like your waltz, I don't stand a chance."

He shook his head, and went to his room to retrieve his letter of introduction to Chief Inspector Alastair Warren of the Metropolitan Police. Returning via the connecting door, he took her arm.

"I think this time, we can treat ourselves to the main hotel entrance and let someone else do the driving – don't you?" She nodded regally, and they sauntered out of her room, along the corridor and descended to the front hall. The doorman touched his top hat, swept the door open for them.

"Cab sir?"

"Yes please," Jack replied. An imperious wave from the doorman summoned a cab from the entrance, and the two of them stepped in, tipping the doorman handsomely.

"Where to, guv?" asked the cabbie.

"Scotland Yard," stated Jack, and settled back with his arm around Phryne's shoulders. To hell with decorum; he'd earned this one. Phryne's hand resting lightly on his thigh suggested that she concurred with his judgement.

"Right you are."

The interview at Scotland Yard went better than Jack could possibly have hoped. Far from resenting interference from an overseas force, Warren was pleased to be handed so much of the solving of several crimes on a plate. The evidence of the telegraphic transfer was acknowledged not to be damning in itself, from an English perspective, but was retained for the Met's files in the expectation that it would shortly be joined by evidence of the criminal source of those funds. A raid of the warehouse would be needed straight away – they didn't want Lachlan to get the chance to find out his funds transfer hadn't gone through.

Phryne was at her most gracious, coming into her own when the fate of the young women was raised. She had identified two charitable organisations – one that could help those who wished to return to Australia, and the other to accommodate those who wished to legalise their stay, and seek the kind of work they had been promised when lured on to the boat. As a man whose chief concern was the apprehension of an international white slaving operation, it was understandable that Warren's capacity to cope with the white slaves wasn't a primary skill, and he gave a good impersonation as a drowning man clutching at the straws she offered.

When she was explicitly excluded from the raid on account of the risks involved, her good humour slipped just for a moment; but she reminded both officers that she was the only woman available of anything like the calibre to deal with this challenge. In fact, she went a little further. If they didn't want to add multiple homicides to the tally, they needed someone on the inside.

A woman. Obviously.

They were both taken aback for a moment. Even Jack had hoped that he might have been able to keep her out of the almost inevitable crossfire. He couldn't deny, though, that she was right. The evidence the police needed was threefold – the money, the records … and the women. If they raided the premises, they would have to expect someone on the inside to make the same connection.

Phryne's proposed solution was met with blank rejection from both of the men in the office.

One hour later, she walked out with a verbal mandate from Scotland Yard for what was almost certainly an Entrapment. At least, Coercion. She had her hopes up that she wouldn't have to settle for Mild Affray. She hadn't settled for Mild Affray for at least five years, and a girl had her reputation to consider.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

When Jack gave her a foot up to scale the wall of the compound, Phryne admitted to a hint of nerves; but she reflected that unlike the rest of the women in the place, she knew she had around thirty friends in the immediate vicinity. They were all armed, they were all experienced professionals, and she had to confess that watching them prepare the drills for the night's work hadn't been in any way a hardship.

She dropped down lightly on the other side, and took a moment to scan the area. She had a scant twenty minutes. In that time, she had to get in to the building, find the women's holding area, infiltrate it and at the very least prepare them for what was coming. The raid was coming at precisely 5 a.m. and she knew well that no-one was going to wait.

There was no-one outside the building on guard. Unsurprising – as far as the gang knew, their location was a secret and the goods to be guarded were on the inside. Sticking close to the wall, she ran lightly to the double gates. Swiftly and silently she dealt with each of the bolts, leaving them ready to swing open for the police. To signal that the job was done, she tapped a Morse "O-K" and received the same response from Jack outside.

So far, so good. Next, to get into the warehouse. Sprinting across the courtyard, she reached the back door, and was forced to employ two precious minutes unlocking it with her trusty pick. She debated locking it again behind her, in case it was discovered, but decided that speed was more important.

Edging along the wall, she peered cautiously around the corner. Her best guess at the location of the prisoners was in a high-windowed block to the south of the building, so she began to creep in that direction. Footsteps coming towards her had her ducking into a cupboard, heart racing; two men walked past. Then they stopped. She tensed; but when one asked the other for a light for his cigarette, she relaxed a little. She heard the match spark, a muttered "Cheers", and the two continued on their way.

She met no more obstacles on her route, and peeking round one last corner, found a man sitting alone outside a single door. Bingo. Time for her act.

Reaching behind her, she untucked the skirt she had folded out of the way to let her climb the outer wall; the grey dress was a reasonable facsimile of the smocks the women wore. Reaching up, she straightened the headscarf turbaned around her head; and stepped out into the corridor, leaning saucily against the wall.

"Hello, gorgeous," she leered at the guard. He looked up, amazed.

"'Ow the 'ell did you get out?" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Didn't go in, did I?" she laughed. "Hid in the truck when we got back. Well, I wasn't going to get you on my own otherwise, was I?"

He was still perturbed, but clearly flattered by the attention. Phryne sashayed towards him, lifting her skirts a little with one hand.

"You want it, don't you?" she taunted, smiling. "Come and get it, then, lover boy."

The man needed no further urging. He advanced on her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pinning her against the wall. Quick as lightning, she brought her knee up to his groin, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his shout of pain. When he doubled over in choking agony, she snatched a pair of standard issue Metropolitan Police handcuffs from under her waistband and cuffed his hands behind him. Her headscarf she tore in two, using half to gag him and the other half to tie his feet, with businesslike efficiency.

That done, she searched him for the key to the door. Unlocking it, her eyes took a moment to become accustomed to the semi-darkness, but the women were already rising from their pallets.

"Miss! Is it really you?" She grinned in response to Kitty's outburst, but held a finger to her lips.

"Shush! Yes, it's me, and I've brought reinforcements to get you all out of here. Right now, though, we have to get that guard in here and lock and bar the door. It's going to get pretty hairy out there in a few minutes, and I have to make sure we don't become hostages."

They dragged the guard into the room where he was dumped on a pallet and unceremoniously sat on by two of the women. The door was locked from the inside, and they then proceeded to drag everything movable in front of it. Just as the last piece of furniture was in place, they heard shouts from the compound.

Phryne and Kitty slumped down with their backs to the pile of miscellaneous furnishings. As they exchanged a glance, Phryne took her hand.

"Kitty, love, I know just what you're up against, but I would be very grateful for your help on something else. And it's going to start with some bad news."

As the shouts and shots came closer, the women – at least thirty, Phryne reckoned – were becoming nervous. Kitty, however, wore her pinched expression bravely.

"Is this about Mary?"

Phryne scanned her face and responded carefully.

"I don't know her name. I was just glad it wasn't you."

Kitty slumped back into the mattresses she was leaning against. How much more, thought Phryne, would this girl have to take?

"Where did you see her?"

"At the morgue."

It was almost more disturbing that there were no tears. No weeping and wailing, no tearing of garments. Just cold acceptance.

"She was six months gone, and couldn't hide it any more. We all knew something would happen. There's no getting away from the pimps; when you're waiting to pick up the next job, they're in sight to get the money, and when you're on it, they're round the corner. If any of us could have escaped, we would've. The time you found me, I'd just finished with a bloke, and Stocky – him, there, the one that Jen and Sally are sitting on – he was the one who coshed you – he'd only lost me in the fog for a minute."

Humour illuminated her face. "You can cosh him back now, if you like."

"Thanks, he's already got a lasting memory of my knee," Phryne responded drily. "I have to ask, though – do you have any idea how Mary died? Her body" at this, Phryne hesitated and glanced at Kitty's stoic face, " – her body was found in the river. The post mortem was pretty sketchy."

"I can guess," Kitty said baldly. "Slapper who's no better than she should be lands up in the drink. Who's going to check for needle marks or bruises?" Her brave words sat in uneasy contrast with her facial expression. She was fighting tears.

"Did you see her that day, Kitty?" Phryne pressed, trying to give the girl something else to think about.

"Sure. She was in the truck with the rest of us in the morning. Difference that day was that she didn't get out."

"What do you mean?" Phryne asked.

"Lachlan was with us that day. Stocky was driving the truck, but Lachlan was riding along. When we got to the drop off, Lachlan came and stopped Mary getting off, put her back on the truck and got in the back with her. They drove off. I didn't see her again."

As epitaphs went, it was about as bad as it could be.

 _Here lies Mary. I didn't see her again._

Phryne swallowed hard. "But you didn't see him hit her or anything?"

"No," reflected Kitty. "But you could ask Stocky. He was driving the truck." Her face, for the first time, lit up. "Or maybe we should all ask him." She looked around at the other women, who had been gathering round slowly, hesitantly. The sounds of gunfire on the other side of the door were a strange counterpoint to their conversation, and Phryne was suddenly alerted to the fact that she had not thought of Jack, or whether he was safe … or anything other than the tragic tale unfolding in this room full of women who should have been allowed to expect more of their lives.

She looked across at Kitty and raised her eyebrows.

"I think you should all do whatever you can to persuade him to open up. As long as there's something left for the police to charge."

By the time Jack shouted their agreed code through the door, getting the furnishings dragged away and the door unlocked, Stocky had waxed remarkably eloquent. And everyone present agreed that it was very surprising how badly bloodied his face was, given that it was a simple trip over a pallet on the floor that caused it. No doubt once he woke up he would be able to explain how it happened. It was no longer necessary, though, to investigate any further the cause of Mary's death; Jack was instructed to locate a bottle of chloroform and a rag, in a canvas satchel, most likely in Lachlan's office, which had been used to render Mary senseless before throwing her and her unborn child into the river Thames.

The raid had been swift and decisive. They succeeded in capturing all of McCullum's gang; and a search of the warehouse office revealed the all-important records of the women's origins and earnings, while Phryne's safecracking skills came in handy to uncover the ledgers, recording the funds transfers to Melbourne that coincided with each new shipment of women. Warren was over the moon. Lachlan McCullum less so. Stocky didn't appear to have much of a view.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Phryne's composure was hard tested when she came to speak to the rest of the victims. Their fear was still palpable. Many were beaten and bruised; they had long since given up hope, and the idea that their hell was ending could not easily be accepted. Still, they supported one another onto the buses that would take them to a safe house, where they would be able to eat, bathe, rest and decide what to do next. Squeezing Jack's hand in farewell, Phryne went with them; a friendly arm around the shoulders here, a quiet word there did something to restore the faith that these women had utterly lost in human nature. He remained behind to help finish up the search for papers – he was after watertight convictions for the Melbourne branch too, and Cooper wouldn't thank him for skimping the job.

It was the early hours of the afternoon before she finally returned to the Savoy. Jack was waiting for her; together they undressed and stumbled into bed, content simply to lie in one another's arms. The happiness and satisfaction of resolving the case was tempered by the horror of the women's plight; and it was a long time before Phryne's eyes closed. A little later, Jack was woken by a slight noise; she was muttering in her sleep, whimpering a little.

He gathered her close and kissed her temple, whispering reassuring nonsense to her until she settled without apparently waking.

As her breathing deepened again, he rested his head on his hand and gazed at her face, imprinting every element on his memory against the day when they would surely once again be separated. And he treated himself to one, very private luxury.

"I love you, Phryne Fisher" he breathed, and gently rested his head back on the pillow behind hers, his face nestled in the familiar scent of her hair.

Her eyes briefly flickered open and she stared into the shaft of golden sunlight falling through the half-open curtains, and the dust motes dancing in the heat. Then her eyes drifted closed. They both slept.


End file.
